


Stay in Wonderland

by Angelbird



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Caring Dean, Case Fic, Gen, Season/Series 01, Sick Sam, Sickfic, Worried Bobby, Worried Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6322501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelbird/pseuds/Angelbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Dean wakes to pitch black, muscles already tensed and ready to spring, as he tries to figure out what disturbed him. It doesn’t feel like there is anybody else in the room with him and Sam, but</em> something <em>is wrong.</em></p><p> </p><p>Sam is sick, Dean is worried, and Bobby is altogether too far away. </p><p>Set early season 1. Canon compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay in Wonderland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NightReader22](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=NightReader22).



> This is a gift for a regular commenter over on FFN. 
> 
> **Prompt:** "a story set in the earlier season's (simpler times, lol) where the boys are on a hunt which is supposed to be simple, only everything goes wrong and Sam gets hurt :) And maybe some Bobby thrown in there somewhere!" 
> 
> Not so much a hunt gone wrong as the Winchesters' usual luck acting up. Just for the occassion.

 

 

Sam has found a quaint little cafe with free Wi-Fi in which to shelter from the rain. The furniture is old and mismatched and though it creates a cosy atmosphere, Sam is hard-pressed to find a combination of chair and table which actually leaves room enough for his legs. But the coffee is warm and strong, and outside it pours. Sam’ll manage.

There’s only a couple of other patrons in the little cafe. One is reading and two have their laptops in front of them like Sam. The barista has disappeared to the back, and Sam asks the girl sitting closest to him for the Wi-Fi password. She blinks at him, and the light flashes in her lance-shaped leaf earrings. Her voice is brittle as she replies.

The small room is warm, and the scent of the large plant next to Sam mingles with the aroma of fresh-ground coffee beans.

 

 

 

Dean wakes to pitch black, muscles already tensed and ready to spring, as he tries to figure out what disturbed him. It doesn’t feel like there is anybody else in the room with him and Sam, but _something_ is wrong.

Another moan from the bed across the room has him up as quickly as the appearance of a monster would have. Dean flicks on the bedside light and makes his way over to Sam.

He is used to all the little sounds Sam usually makes in his sleep. Even after all these years, he is still able to recognise (and generously ignore) the moans caused by one of the good dreams. Lately, he has become all too familiar with the whimpers and sometimes even screams torn from Sam when he has one of the bad ones.

The soft noises his little (hah. Dean can’t believe he has grown that tall) brother is making now, are not like any he has heard before. He gently brushes Sam’s stupidly long hair away from his forehead, then curses.

“Sam, wake up. Come on, Sammy, I need you awake,” he softly coaxes Sam into consciousness. Dean thinks it takes an awful long time. Sam’s skin is burning where Dean’s fingers still rest against his forehead.

“Dean,” Sam slurs and it’s barely recognisable.

“Right here, Sammy. How are you feeling?”

“Why you waking me? Need to go?” It worries Dean that Sam still isn’t coherent. Their life has taught them to wake up and be ready to fight (or run) in an instant. Sam might have been out of the game for a couple of years, but still.

“No, we’re fine. Tell me how you are?”

“‘m hot.” Sam pushes the duvet of him, as though he only just realises this, and Dean can see that his t-shirt is almost soaked through. Also, he is trembling in violent bursts that rock his body.

“I’ll get you a cold cloth and a glass of water. Stay where you are.”

Dean dashes into the motel’s sad little bathroom and returns in record time. Sam has pulled the duvet over himself again. His shivers are more pronounced.

“Sammy?”

“Cold,” he mutters, “Why’s it so cold in here?” His teeth are almost chattering.

Dean curses silently to himself again, “See if you can drink a little water, okay?”

It takes both of them to get Sam even halfway into a sitting position. Dean helps him hold the glass to his lips, and Sam sips the water twice, before weakly trying to push it away. Dean concedes defeat and removes the glass, and Sam slumps back down uncoordinatedly. He’s still much too warm to Dean’s touch.

“Sammy, I need to take the duvet of you. I’ll get you a sheet instead.”

“No,” Sam complains with no strength in his voice, “cold.”

“It’ll help, Sammy,”

Sam just moans again and clutches the duvet closer.

Eventually Dean manages to convince him that a dry t-shirt will be more comfortable and warmer to boot. Dean takes the duvet from him and manages to change his big little brother’s shirt more or less for him, and then gives him a sheet in exchange for the cover thrown on the dingy carpet. Sam seems to be too exhausted by the short exertion to even notice. He miserably shakes himself into unconsciousness.

 

 

 

“I’ve tried everything, Bobby. I can barely get him to drink when he is awake, but I did get some Tylenol in him a couple of hours ago. And I’ve done cold wash cloths, and open windows and everything. I’m freezing my ass off, but nothing seems to get his temperature down!”

“Breathe, boy. You need to keep your head if you’re to help him. You’re sure it’s not just the flu or something?”

“I don’t know where he would have caught it. Hell, he didn’t even get caught in that shower yesterday. It’s gone from zero to nuclear in a couple of hours, Bobby. What do I do?”

There’s a silence, then, “What else, besides the fever?”

“Chills. His eyes are bloodshot. He complained about a headache last time he was awake, too, I think, but he was barely coherent. I can’t explain it, but there’s something wrong. Very wrong.”

“You’re sure it doesn’t just seem that way to you, because you only just got him back?”

“I’m sure, Bobby. And I never _lost_ him.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, boy. And you might be able to con your dad into thinking that wasn’t what you felt, but don’t try to pull that crap with me. Now go watch over your brother and let me know it something else happens. Find out what he was doing yesterday. I’ll see if I can find anything.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

 

 

 

There’s a grove of trees with shiny, oblong leaves and heavy fruits, some red and some so dark they’re almost black. When the wind sails through the treetops, it sounds like laughter. Sam laughs with the trees.

He dances down a path which is so faint that it almost isn’t there.

“Careful,” his brother’s voice says, and he feels the rain on his tongue, but Dean isn’t there.

“Careful,” the voice repeats, but it’s not the same voice. “You’ll get us lost,” she laughs at him.

“I’m a hunter, I’ll take care of you,” he tells her, and lets himself drown in her beautiful smile while the rain soaks his chest. “I’ll protect you Jess.” Strange, there are no clouds in the sky.

But now dusk is falling and they lay down together. It’s so pleasant to just lie down. Sam wonders if Jess is cold, though. Then, he sleeps.

 

 

 

“It’s getting worse.”

“Tell me.”

“His stomach is swelling. I had to change his shirt again. Spilled water all over him, ‘cause I genuinely thought he was awake and tried to make him drink something. He... He’s calling for Jess.”

 

 

 

The low, consistent groan pulls Dean out of his doze and his neck hates him for sitting like that even if it can’t have been more than twenty minutes. The sun is up now, and Sam’s fever has been raging for almost eight hours. Dean is sick with worry.

“Sammy?”

“Dean,” he whimpers, his bloodshot eyes focusing better this time.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been mauled by a wendigo,” Sam mutters back, barely audible. “Everything hurts.”

“D’you want some water? Drinking something would be good.”

“No.”

“Sam.”

“Gonna puke. ...But. Bathroom?”

Dean helps him to his feet and stays with him. He has practically raised Sam, and even if Sam is an adult now, has made that abundantly clear, he is still just a little kid in Dean’s mind when he is sick like this.

 

 

 

“Add diarrhea to the list of symptoms.”

 

 

 

“Sammy, did you eat anything yesterday? Go anywhere in particular?” Dean’s glad for a chance to ask, but he can‘t help thinking it was better when Sam was unconscious.

The shivers have gone down to a fine trembling, as though Sam’s muscles are to tired to keep anything else up. He’s still burning, and complaining about being too cold.

“Café,” Sam mutters, taking too long to open his eyes every time he blinks.

“Did you eat anything?”

“Just coffee.”

“Was anything off about the coffee?”

“‘t’was pretty. Like trees.”

Dean pauses, “Sammy?”

“So pretty. Not as pretty as you, though.”

Dean bites his lip. It’s not funny. He hopes (he’s not a praying man, he knows better than most what is and _is not_ out there, after all), but he hopes that there will be one day, when they can look back at this and he can tease Sam for that comment.

“I love you, Jess.”

It’s not funny.

 

 

 

“Please tell me you have something, Bobby.”

“I have something. I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Anything is welcome right now.”

“You’re in Lancaster, right? I have a missionary, Reverend G. W. Parker, originally hailing from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, who wrote something about poisons. There’s one with an uncomfortably familiar list of symptoms here. Chills, headache, bloodshot eyes, severe pain, abdominal swelling, diarrhea, fever, delirium.” Significant pause. “Sam’s got all of those save the delirium, right?” 

“Including the delirium. He is having longer conversations with Jess now. In between moaning and crying with pain.”

Silence.

“Bobby?”

“I’m still here.”

“You left something out. More symptoms?”

“Effect. Death.”

Harsh exhale, “... Tell me there is something to do about this. God,  _Bobby—_ ” 

“It’s a tree. The poison is from a tree. Big, brittle, lance-shaped leaves, red and black oblong fruits. It’s fruits should work as an antidote. Red ones. But it’s the _air_ around the tree which is poisonous, probably, so you need to be careful, do you hear me, son?” 

“Bye, Bobby.”

 

 

 

Dean sits down gently at Sam’s bedside. His little brother is awake for now. Mostly. “Sammy, come on. I need you to focus on me for a second.”

“Jess?”

Dean tries to repress the wince. “No, it’s me Dean.”

“I’m sick, aren’t I?”

“Yes, Sammy—”

“So I’m hallucinating,” the word seems to take effort.

“Sammy,” Dean runs his hand through Sam’s hair, long past the point of being able to keep the desperation out of his voice.

“I have a brother, you know,” Sam continues, oblivious, making Dean freeze. “Makes sense I’d ‘lucinate him. Used to look after me when I was sick. And when I wasn’t. I left him.”

“Shh, Sam.”

But Sam continues, “I needed to get away, Jessie. T’was killing me. Not all the actually dangerous stuff—”

“Sam,” Dean’s voice is sharp this time and it makes his brother pause.

“Ne’er mind. That’s not something you want to know. Besides, it was just all the crap I couldn’t take. The obsession. And look at me now, like father like son...” Sam pauses, his face scrunching up in confusion, “That doesn’t make sense. I feel like... but what have I got to be obsessed about, Jess? I haven’t lost—”

“Stop!” Dean’s barked command cuts Sam off this time. Dean thinks he sounds like their father.

“Dean?” There’s something which Dean thinks (hopes) is focus in Sam’s eyes this time.

“You with me, Sammy?”

“Think so.”

“I need you to think, Sam. Did you go through a park or something yesterday? Did you see a tree with red and black fruits and long leaves?” Dean stares hard at him, as though he can extract the memory from Sam’s murky, fever-addled mind by pure force of will.

“Café.”

“I know you went to a café, Sam. Think _trees_.”

“No, there was a tree, little potted thing, in the café. And a girl. With leaf-earrings.”

“Did the potted tree have oblong fruits?”

“Think so. Smelled weird, too.”

Dean curses, although almost reassured this time, and rises.

“Wait,” Sam begs pitifully, and Dean bends down and runs a hand through Sam’s hair again. “He used to do that when I was sick, you know,” and a breath, “I _miss_ him.”

Dean’s whimper almost matches Sam’s.

 

 

 

Dean’s not happy about leaving Sam alone when he is sick, but he is _terrified_ that he’s running out of time. So he is really just choosing the lesser of two evils. The café is closed when he gets there, and it’s only then Dean realises that it is getting late and that dusk has already fallen.

The area is quiet and the street is almost so cute it gives him the creeps. Surely, nowhere is actually this idyllic? Dean gets out his lock picks. At least it looks like he’ll be able to work without any prying eyes.

Moments later Dean is growling in frustration. The picks just don’t seem to catch. He tries another twist, and then another, before pulling the picks out to glare at them reproachfully for all that he knows it’s pointless.

Except it isn’t. Because it is glaringly obvious why the picks aren’t catching on the lock. “What the actual fuck?” The points are gone, melted away.

Well, at least now Dean knows he is in the right place.

Throwing another look up and down the empty street, Dean proceeds to plan B. He’d usually go to lengths to avoid something as obvious as this, but the clock is ticking. He breaks the glass pane of the door.

The lock turns readily enough once he can get to it from the inside, although there should probably be melted metal stuck in it now. It is full dark as Dean wraps his scarf (worn for that purpose) around his face, and enters the small room.

He finds the tree easily enough, despite the lack of light. Picking out a couple of red fruits is also no problem. But the gloom probably explains why he doesn’t see the figure who suddenly tackles him to the ground, uttering a shrill battle cry as it goes.

Dean likes to think it is surprise that lands him on the back, more than the creature’s strength. It’s petite. But for all that it weighs almost nothing, Dean struggles to get it off him.

Its clothes are loose almost like a second, ill-fitting skin and keeps slipping around its body, while it trashes inside them. The creature manages to elbow Dean in the chin, but he suspects it has more to do with the violent flailing than actual intent on its part. The punches it lands with its thin arms feels more like whipping swipes then actual hits.

Dean manages to get up, sooner than getting the creature off him. If only he could make it to the door. The fruits are still clutched in his right hand (which, in all fairness doesn’t help project ‘get rid of the crazy scarecrow’), and they only feel a little mashed.

The creature doesn’t seem to want to let him get away, though, and it hinders him with a surprising efficiency. Dean intensifies his struggles to just it off his person.

Then suddenly there is a low table in Dean’s path.

Dean stumbles, twists, and drags the creature with him.

They hit the large window and their combined weight splinters the glass, sending them both tumbling out into the street in a painful rain of shards and blood.

But it also finally breaks the creature’s hold on Dean, and he is up and running before he even registers the lights that has been turned on in the houses around them, the blood running down his now bare face and its well-known metallic, yet oddly foreign taste in his mouth, or the doors opening far behind him.

The only thing he knows is that he still has the fruits clutched in his hand.

 

 

 

“He needs to eat them.”

Dean’s still out of breath.

“How much did you get?”

“Enough. I’ll save some, just in case. I did take precautions, though, Bobby.”

“I know.”

 

 

 

Back in the motel room, Dean mashes the fruits, to make it easier to get them down Sam’s throat. They were half-crushed before he managed to get them in a container anyway.

There’s blood in the mix, too. Dean hopes is doesn’t ruin anything. There isn’t really anything to do about it.

He does wonder about that creature. But he has more pressing issues.

 

 

 

After Dean’s fed him the mashed fruits, Sam sleeps. But it is a sleep that Dean is familiar with; normal if exhausted.

So Dean strips out of his clothes and lets them lie where they fall. He cleans his wounds in the shower and is happily surprised to find that there are less of them than the amount of blood on his clothes had led him to think.

When he is done, he gathers his clothes in a pile to take along with them and burn. He wants to leave as soon as Sam is recovered enough.

Dean’s been awake for well over 24 hours, but he is not going to sleep yet. He doesn’t know what or even _if_ that being was a monster, but if it followed him back here...

And so Dean sits vigil over Sam as he sleeps.

 

 

 

Six hours later they are on the road, Sam behind the wheel of the Impala. He is a little pale and a little dehydrated, but other than that he seems unmarked by the poisoning. If he remembers anything of his hallucinations, of his supposed conversations with a dead girl, he doesn’t say. Dean isn’t going to bring it up. Instead he leans against the door to catch some well-deserved rest.

It isn’t funny anyway.

 

 

 

In a motel room far behind them, a cleaning lady finds a broken leaf earring and a couple of bright red seeds.

The earring is thrown into the trash.

The seeds she pushes into the ground out back in a moment’s curiosity. By the time they sprout she has forgotten all about them.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the _The Matrix_ quote, “You take the red pill, you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.”
> 
> Anyboy want to play guess the "bad guy"? :D What are we dealing with here?


End file.
